Lord, where to begin. Some times in everyone's life, I suppose,
are epochal. Kagnew Station was like that. It was a place in which a
story took place which would require a Shakespeare to write, in a landscape
which would require a Rembrandt to paint. But, in spite of this, it is
not a place which has become, with the years, idealized in my memory,
despite the scenery which would have done justice to the most lavish
production of the most romantic opera ever produced. What I remember about
it, and the time, is real, though, as real as the feeling of the sun on
the beach at Massawa.

The Genesis of the Lifer Puke Wars

When I first got to Kagnew, I was a SP5, and, at that time, a SP5 could
join both the Oasis (EM) Club and the Top 5 club, which I did. There was
a band which played at both the Oasis and Top 5, called the Morocks
(pronounced mau-rocks) and so I got to see them every weekend. I'd sure
like to hear from Vic D'Amore, Larry Kaiser, Butch and Tuk again. Vic was
the drummer and Larry played the electric piano in the band. Tuk sang and
played bass, Butch was on lead guitar. Vic and Butch were in Headquarters
Company, I think, and I have no idea what they did. Larry was, if my
recollection is correct, an Arabic linguist. Tuk was in the Navy, I think.
Later, when people of both higher and lower ranks got jealous
of SP5's they were restricted to joining one club or the other, not both.
During the time I was there was an awful lot of bitterness that built up,
especially between the one-tour Army ASA people and the career (lifer)
people. Part of this was a product of the times, I suspect. Guys
were continually getting transferred to Viet Nam, and most of them had
joined the ASA (two years more than a draftee had to pull) to get out
of Vietnam or, at least, get rear area jobs as their recruiters had
promised. Their recruiters all told them they were in the top 10%, and
that was the hook..tell them how smart they are and that, therefore, they
are among the very few worthy of initiation into a top secret fraternity,
and tell them any more specifics were classified, then sit back, wink, nod,
and let them use their own pen to sign the papers for four years instead of
two. These fellows then found out that reality was different. They could
have signed up for three years, instead of four, for instance, and
learned to be a finance clerk, or gone to radio repairman school. As these
guys waited for their orders, they obviously resented what was happening,
more especially because they had to serve so much longer than finance
clerks or radio repairmen who had, perhaps, a less risky job.
They were right, you know, it was a fucked-up deal. But that's how the
Army played it. It was made worse by the fact that these guys had done
it to themselves, by making what they thought was the smart play.

The Times They were A'Changin'

The times, of course, were wild back in Europe and the States,
everybody was smoking dope and getting laid. Sergeant Pepper came out while
I was in Asmara, and I heard my first Grateful Dead in Asmara. It was
obvious that we were stuck far, far from what was happening, and this
helped increase the tension.
I, of course, was a lifer, having re-enlisted for six years in 1963. I was
also, after May of 1967, a SSG E6, drawing P2 pay, with over six years
service and without any dependents, and so I probably had as much
disposable income as anyone at Kagnew, which a couple of guys who were
married really resented, and told me so. As I've said many times,
though, imitation ain't the sincerest form of flattery, envy is.

Keeping Busy

I spent most of my time playing basketball, volleyball, table tennis,
badminton, in the perpetual athletic competitions between the companies,
as well as teaching English at a local Catholic (LaSalle, run by the
Christian Brothers) School, working on set design and construction and
(in one case, see below) acting in the local plays put on at the post
theater, as well as helping organize and participating in a folk dancing
group, attended by some soldiers, but mostly by the local Jewish community,
and taking two classroom college courses given on post by the University
of Maryland.

At work I was, in turn, an analyst on the Congo Kinshasa problem, a
TA trick chief (A Trick), and, finally, Operations Sergeant for the
Sub-Saharan African section. At the company, I was, for much of this
tour, a platoon sergeant (I was supposed to be living in the barracks),
and, since I was the junior NCO, the Re-Up NCO of Company B.

Where in the hell I found time for all this remains a mystery to me to
this day, but there it is, listed. I did all this stuff, and, in most
cases, still have the paperwork. I obviously didn't
have a lot of free time for boozing and whoring in Asmara. The on-post
clubs, and the bands that played in them, really dominated what disposable
time I had. It was a hectic life, but I loved it and I would have been
happy to have stayed there, forever young, forever running.

Playing Ball

I first started playing basketball with HQ company, who had a
civilian who was 6' 10" (Bob ?, from Philadelphia) but, soon after
the season started, I was moved to Company B. I had a great time playing
on both teams. We lost a couple of the best players from Company B
when I joined the team because they didn't want to be on the team with
a lifer, but I didn't see why I should do a damned thing to
accommodate idiots like that. So we didn't have a lot of talent, as the
guys that quit were a lot better than I was, but we pulled off some great
upsets and played some great games, and ended up breaking about even in
wins and losses, even against teams like the HQ team. It was great playing
there. Unlike other Army posts, people actually came out to the games, and
there would often be crowds of 200 or more. Since I was the ranking person
on the team, I had to sign for all the uniforms, and ended up paying for
a couple of them as a couple of fellows didn't mind stealing from a
lifer. But generally the experience was great, and the players, both on
our team and the opponents, mostly made the game fun. Some of them were
quite good.

Teaching

I taught English for one semester in a class composed of 25 or so
Italian 10-11 year old boys, and a couple of Eritrean boys there on
scholarship. What an experience, since I spoke no Italian, and the
Priest who was the Principal and was French, prided himself on
his English which was often unintelligible to me. Even though I'd finished
at DLI, for some reason, he had difficulty understanding my French
(it always sounded ok to me, I knew what I was saying). I attempted to
teach English as they had taught me French at Monterey, but we had to
use their text book. You know what one of the first words these
kids learned from that text book was? "Ink-pot". Ink-pot? One day one
of the boys, who was quite a cut-up, was sitting in the first row and
turned around while another fellow was reading and distracted proceedings.
I stopped the recitation and called on the fellow and he
turned around with a big smile on his face, and black ink dots all over
it. All the kids were breaking up laughing, and, just at that moment,
while I was trying to figure out how to handle the situation, the Priest
walked in with the cut-up's mother. Whooo boy did the crap hit the fan,
the priest grabbed the poor kid by the ear, and dragged him out of the
classroom, his mom was crying and wailing to me in Italian and bowing,
and the entire class was sitting transfixed. We finally got started again,
and the cut-up came back, a changed boy. He'd been beaten as only kids in
European Catholic School are spanked. Man I felt bad. The kid's father
later made a special trip up to the school next time and brought the
Priest in to translate his apology to me and his son was made to also. They
brought me a carton of cigarettes, which must have set them back a bunch,
but which I could buy for $2.50. What a deal. I kept on saying that it
was not a real problem for me, and that it was ok, but the fellow's father
was mortified and thought I was only being polite. The Priest told me
that I didn't understand, and I was just making things worse so to
politely accept the apology, as the father felt disgraced by his son, and
the son would catch more grief yet. I only taught there the one semester.
Can you imagine that sort of thing happening in America today? Heck the
father would have been in jail, the Priest would have been in jail and
probably me too.

Remember the USS Liberty

I had been Trick Chief of A Trick for only a month or so. We were
just completing a mid shift and I was sitting around the Congo Kinshasa
section with Pat Amick, Mike Ro(d?)gers, and the rest of the gang shooting
the breeze when some guy came running in from a voice intercept station
yelling that some guy was screaming in French and there were clearly
bombs exploding in the background. Pat went to check it out (he was the
best French Linguist there, not me) and it turned out that it was a
reporter from a French news service at the Cairo airport, which was in the
process of being bombed. When we found out that the Israelis had launched
a sneak attack and that a full scale war was in progress, the entire mission
was reorganized. We all went on twelve hour shifts, and, for some reason,
I was in charge of the evening shift. The Traffic Analysis Trick Chief's
major responsibility was distributing the traffic from the communications
center to the various recipients, being particularly careful not to send
any classified documents to the PX, or some place else on post but outside
the secure area. This last part I did very well which is the only reason
I could see that they left me there every night. Anyway, I released a
couple of Critics when various Arabic countries broke off diplomatic
relations, and read a lot of other Critics and Operational Immediate
messages to determine whether the officers should be called, but otherwise
just performed routine tasks until the evening when one of the fellows who
was operating a non-morse intercept station came running to me and said that
the Israelis were attacking the USS Liberty, which was a ship which cruised
the Mediterranean Sea intercepting for the good old USA. Against all
standing orders and procedures he continued to intercept what was a Sixth
Fleet (do I have that number right?) voice net between an Aircraft Carrier
and several jets who patrolled the Mediterranean. The attack continued
for quite a time, it seemed, until, thankfully, the Sixth Fleet sent a
couple of fighters to "defend the USS Liberty". When the pilots asked
what "defend the Liberty" meant, the Admiral said "Exactly that, they
were to find the ship and destroy any and all attacking forces, no matter
what the nationality". Well, conveniently, at almost exactly that time,
the Israelis noticed the American Flags flying from all over the vessel
and that the ship was only armed with a .50 caliber machine gun and so
could not be that Egyptian Destroyer they thought it was, and so broke
off their cowardly attack. Before that time, the Israelis were heroes to
me, since that time they have been the personification of Evil Incarnate.
If I were to pray, I would pray that their enemies consumed them. I'll
never forget the USS Liberty and the men who died on it, hung out as
targets by a United States government more worried about what its allies
might think that about the lives of the men they had ordered (on pain of
execution, for that is the possible price of mutiny) into harm's way. Of
the things that America has done, and of the crummy way America has
treated her veterans of this era, this was the worst act, in my book. A
salute to the brave Officers and Crew of the USS Liberty, and a prayer
for justice for those who died that day at the hands of back-stabbers and
sneaks.

My Acting Career is Launched with My First Starring Role

I read for, and got the part of Scrooge in "A Christmas Carol",
which to this day, people say is type-casting. I still don't get it.
Anyway the play was a wonderful experience. The Suez Canal had been
closed by the Egyptians sinking ships in it, so we were unable to
get costumes in time so it was decided to do the play in a contemporary
setting. But Ron Roark and Phil Klinginsmith insisted that I would need
white hair, as Scrooge had to be old, for artistic integrity. Now there
was no way to get a wig from USAREUR by that time, since ships had to go
around the Cape of Good Hope, and the item was not important
enough to ship by air, so I quit the part so they could get someone who
was old enough for the part. They would have none of it, though, and
insisted that I was perfect for the role and could get my hair dyed by
one of the beauticians who worked at the post beauty shop
who was helping on the play, at her house, in private. I was skeptical,
but I put in a Disposition Form Request (I've still got it somewhere,
I think) to dye my hair white for the four or five days of play
performances and not get a haircut for a couple of months. To my
everlasting amazement, it was approved, endorsed all the way up from
my Company Commander (Capt Ron LaBreche), to the Post Adjutant, to the
Executive Officer to the Post Commander. Well, you guessed it, on the day
we had to get my hair dyed, the lady had to work at the beauty shop and
I had to go there. At first, I refused to do that, but my
good friend Ron Roark insisted he'd stay with me and it would only take
an hour or so. I got there. and they got started, and, after I had all
sorts of chemicals in my hair, Ron left, laughing. Then the lady told me
that they couldn't dye hair white, they had to bleach the
hell out of it and then powder it white and the whole thing was going
to take several hours. I sat there in a rubber hat with holes in it,
as woman after woman came into that shop, laughing and talking with her
friends. Then they'd eye me and go silent. Then all the ladies
in the shop would amuse themselves by explaining my predicament and they
would all laugh and make fun of me. Fellows, I can tell you, bleaching
your hair to the roots hurts. I knew then, sitting in that chair in the
beauty shop that I would never understand women. Why in the world would
someone do something to themselves that hurts so much, just for
looks? The problem probably is not so apparent to people today who
routinely get tattoos and piercings, but I don't get that, either.

Anyway, by this time, I'm Operations Sergeant for Sub-Saharan Africa.
I have a desk in front of a map of the continent, in the middle,
flanked by an NSA civilian (the Bob of basketball fame, above) and a
CWO, the three of us facing the 25 or so people in the section. At that
time, also, I had one of those great tans everyone had in Asmara. Coming
to work the Monday after the Beauty Shop Saturday, I was sporting
short-sleeved khakis and an overseas cap rakishly tilted to
show my snow white hair, two months long and swept back in a duck-tail,
contrasted against my deep, dark tan. Man, one little trip to the beauty
shop, a couple of hours of agony and I really looked good! The entire
ensemble was set off, and stylishly completed, I think, by the Italian
sunglasses. Oh, I can tell you, I was a marvelous sight to behold.
Major Dodd (?) who was Operations Officer came running into the office
just as I got back there with my coffee and looked at me in horror and
asked what I had done to myself. I patiently showed him my DF, smiling.
Well, it seems we had just gotten our 72 hour notice of the IG coming,
and the powers that were at the field station wanted me lost. So, I got
two consecutive three day passes and missed the entire inspection and
the chicken-shit preparation for it. Ron Roark and Phil Klinginsmith went
through hell, I understand, what with all the last minute preparations
for the play and getting ready for the inspection. Ah, the Lord works in
mysterious ways to avenge the Good against the machinations of Evil.
Opening night of the play, the IG party had seats right up front and
center and I did my best to give them a great performance.

The Lifer Puke Wars Make Me a Rock and Roll Star

One night, after everyone had been required to choose which club they
wanted to be a member of, I helped the band set up at the Oasis, and
then went out to listen and drink a couple of beers. After a couple of
hours, someone turned me in and I was asked to leave. Since I had the
keys to the car the instruments were carried in, I went to the band to
leave the keys. Someone asked me where I was going, and I told him
someone had ratted me out, and, since I was not a member of the Oasis
and was not eligible to join I had to leave. Tuk got enraged. Butch was
not a member of the Oasis either since he had chosen to join
the Top 5, and he asserted that if I could not stay it was only fair
that he couldn't either, and the entire band ended up walking off the
stage. What a deal. I tried to get them to go back, but they informed
the crowd that they were leaving and why and started pulling their
instruments down. I thought there was going to be a riot and I just
wanted out of there, and the band to go on playing. The NCO who ran the
club came running out and worked out a compromise which I didn't want,
but the band wouldn't go back on stage unless I agreed, and went back
into the club. So I ended up being obliged to stand on the end of the
stage as if I were a part of the band, and the Oasis club had to pay me,
as if I were a member of the band. Oh man was I embarrassed. I never
went back to the Oasis, and I never helped the band set up again,
though Butch and Tuk especially remained my friends. The Brave Lad who
turned me in never owned up to his courageous act, and the Lifer Puke
who ran the club never gave him up, which I think said a lot for the
character of both actors in the situation.